PART 1
The camp was a small, family-owned operation, so my role there was all-encompassing. Officially, my title was Camp Support Specialist, and I did everything administrative, corresponded with guests, checked people in, and even turned over cabins with fresh linens. I started working at Camp Milford in my early twenties. It never was going to be a career, but I really enjoyed the work. I did everything with pride, greeting people with a smile and happily giving tours through the wooded grounds.
The camp itself was a network of winding roads, intersecting and diverging from one another, forming an incomprehensible web of dirt paths. The landscape of the camp had developed organically over years, branching out to connect this cabin with another. With a romantic outlook, you could say it was like a backwoods version of a European street layout: charmingly carved without any thought for efficiency. It made driving our camp ATVs around so fun, up this hill, down the other. Beautiful views would reveal themselves at the end of unfinished paths, clear and spacious, through pine trees into the surrounding mountains. Being at the camp was therapeutic for me, blending nature with socializing and making money. I absolutely loved it.
Fall was one of the best times of the year at Camp Milford. The towering trees formed arching cathedral ceilings above our senseless pathways. The maple trees would flamboyantly display their colors and their leaves seemed to fall in slow motion. The light on a clear fall day here was indescribable. Bright sun and crisp blue sky. It was a pleasure to walk to and from cabins even if it was menial labor. This leafy part of camp contrasted with the north side, which was dense with towering pines. We called this section 'the loop,' which was noticeably dim during the day, and deep black during the night. Riding an ATV on the loop was definitely the preferred mode of transportation in the evening, walking the loop at night was unsettling. Even with a bright flashlight you could only see the area it illuminated. But the moon, the stars, and how sublimely quiet this area got at night made it seem otherworldly compared to my evenings in the city nowadays.
Apart from the forested areas of the camp, the working and living quarters had charm of their own. The camp office was in a large but simply constructed building--a simple roofline with a wrap-around porch. Arriving guests would queue under the shade of the porch to speak to me and receive their keys at the start of summer.
Connected to the office were the lower showers and bathrooms. The facilities were comically outdated, with faded posters of national parks, a few rickety benches made from two-by-fours, and sinks with the laminate peeling off in sections. There were typical bathroom stalls, equipped with toilets that emptied into an abysmal pit. Stained urinals with leaky plumbing. A line of four showers at the end of the narrow room. The smell was like you've smelled before, lingering urine with a hint of air freshener. A definite sour trace of male sweat from someone that had just showered but since left. I always found this bathroom erotic. I think it was the rawness of the no-frills space, the thought of all the men that had showered here, exposed themselves, walked around confidently in their older age, hairy cocks swinging, pissing naked, shaving their necks and leaving razors behind.
There was something about showering here. Despite it potentially being described as disgusting, I found it so liberating. I loved when men would accidentally leave behind a bar of soap. The fact that it had rubbed up and down their thick bodies, gliding through layers of wet, curly body hair, slipping down inevitably to their warm and relaxed daddy cock. It would turn me on to get naked and rub the same soap all over myself. I even loved the stereotypical masculine scents of the soaps, the way that those scents remind you of aftershaves of men that were around when you were just beginning to develop an interest in male bodies.
